‘A mathematical equation is an expression of the relationship between different variables.’ 

Thinkers claim that anything in the universe can be modelled using the language of numbers. If every expression assumes an order or an equality, what would life equate to? 

Belonging? Happiness? Responsibility?

My ten-year-old daughter watches my moment of epiphany curiously. She is doing that thing with her feet which tells me that something is on her mind. Unlike solving equations, it’s impossible to interpret what pre-teens feel. One minute they are like dormant volcanos, tranquil and congenial, and the next, they spew lava and ash.

My offspring is a lot like me, with the same smirk, the angular chin, and the pointed nose. But that’s where genetics draws a line. She hasn’t inherited my love for Mathematics or my penchant for preparedness. The lack of both is causing her distress. There is an upcoming examination in a fortnight for which she is woefully unprepared. I remind her that listening to Taylor Swift on a loop isn’t the answer; opening books is. Her face falls and my frosted heart thaws a little. I promise to come to her rescue and help her revise. 

Math is my home ground. Ever since I quit my corporate job, the only use my degree has been put to is in coaching her. This is precisely what popular parenting blogs warn me against.

‘Let your child fail. By hand-holding them, you are setting them up for disappointment. If they don’t stumble, how will they learn to walk?’

This is not about teaching her how to walk. This is about cheering her to run in life’s race. Failure isn’t an option, neither for me nor for her, because her accomplishments ultimately become my progress report. Consequently, just like the vast majority of the Singaporean parent population, I interfere unapologetically in my child’s education. 

Strangely, my husband is unperturbed by my competitiveness. In mathematical terms, he stands out as a constant, one that maintains equanimity no matter what the turbulence. Like him, I wish I could exercise detachment. But a girl needs her mother. No one knows this better than me. At thirty-eight, I’m still dependent on my mother, my Amma, more than I ever was. Life advice, parenting hacks, and culinary tips; Amma is a goldmine of solutions. My friend, my guide, and my confidante.

As I open the Math textbooks, and get ready to chastise the offspring, I receive a phone call from India. It’s Amma. The minute she says hello, I know something is wrong. 

Terribly wrong.

When I tell my daughter that her grandmother is sick, she expresses concern. When I inform her that I’ll be flying to India, the concern turns to self-preservation. What about my Math exam? she demands. Granny has only me, and I need to be with her in her time of need, I explain. I’ll be back before you know it, I add. She looks crestfallen but gives her reluctant consent. 

Truth be told, I don’t know how long it will take. My analytical mind has already phrased the problem statement.Calculate the time taken for a lung patient who has contracted an infectious virus, to recover without any major complications.

These are numbers I don’t want to process. There are many outcomes, and not all are favourable. I hastily plan and pack, preparing for my imminent departure.

***

Singapore’s Changi Airport is one of the world’s most efficient airports. I’m here, tapping my feet impatiently, waiting for my flight, and mindlessly scrolling through videos. A particular spelling bee reel holds my attention. 

B..R..O..N..C..H..I..E..A..C..T..A..S..I..S…

Bronchiectasis. A long-term condition that affects the lungs.

A ten-year-old rattles off this complicated word with ease. Netizens express admiration for the child’s proficiency. Would it be vanity on my part to claim that I could say this word at the age of eight, spelling, definition, and all? I owe it to my mother, but not in the way one would think. 

Some power above us scribbles our life’s equations and decides how much happiness we are eligible for; not an iota more, not an iota less. We don’t select our parents and they don’t select their diseases. I was the child who knew about lung X-rays, infections, and scarring. A little knowledge is dangerous, but too much information, at too young an age? Devastating.

I am no longer a child, but a woman with greying hair and a flight to catch. A flight that will take me to my home in India. 

But what is home, anyway? 

Many years ago, I relocated to Singapore with my husband, in search of greener pastures. India is where I grew up before I acquired a new surname, grew wings, and abandoned my roots. If you ask my daughter, she will say Singapore is home, and India is the place we visit every year on an obligatory whirlwind trip. This time, this is no leisure trip. My mother needs me, and I am going. 

I recall my conversation from the day before. Amma tells me she is sick. She has caught a bug and it’s flaring up badly. A defiant scourge has floated into her pristinely clean home and has lodged itself firmly in her chest.  She is at risk, given her history of bronchiectasis. For a lung patient, even the slightest cold can prove damaging. When I say I’m coming, she protests that I have a family to look after. I remind her that she is my family too. That’s why I’m here in this airport filled with holiday revellers, embarking on my mission of mercy. 

Amma’s always been a fighter. We have been one team, through the highs and the lows. It’s been the two of us up against the world. The burden of being the only child to a single mother hits me. Would things be different had Papa been alive? The cancer took him when I was a child. It was no surprise I developed a voracious appetite for Math books, because in them, every problem had a solution, unlike Papa’s terminal illness, which had none. There was another question that tortured me in my childhood. I dared not voice it loud, lest it come true. 

What if something happened to Amma? Would I be passed around like a parcel among relatives, or would I be deposited unceremoniously in an orphanage, like Oliver Twist? 

As I board the plane, I dismiss this morbid train of thought. My flight takes off and Singapore becomes a distant blob in my tear-filled blurry field of vision. The gentleman on my right values sleep, over conversation. I can’t say the same of the inquisitive lady on my left. Her ruthless prodding prompts me to explain to her the purpose of my solitary sojourn. 

She comments that I am lucky to have a supportive partner, who lets me prioritize my mother over my child. Our child, I correct mentally, while pretending to fall asleep to avoid further conversation. 

I can’t remember when my eyes shut, but I awaken with a start when the wheels of the craft hit the runway with a thud. Trepidation and anxiety overwhelm me, thinking about what may ensue next.

I wonder what the odds of boarding the return flight with a happy heart, are. 

***

It’s past midnight when I arrive at home. The lights are switched on, and I see an enfeebled silhouette by the door. 

Amma. 

I long to hug her and hold her hand, but I can’t. The virus still separates us, forming an invisible barrier. The caregiver must take care to not become the patient. In the light, I get a clearer look at Amma’s face. She has aged, something I find hard to accept. Mothers are invincible, right? But now, she is broken, weak, and looking at me for assurance. 

When the person who has been the source of your strength for as long as you can remember, reaches out to you, seeking solace, what do you do? When your parent turns into your child, how do you cope?

My smile barely reaches my eyes. I tell her that it’s going to be okay. It’s probably nothing, she mutters. It’s definitely nothing, I repeat. She scolds me for coming to India in a hurry, and I assure her that it’s no hassle. She is maintaining a fever chart, and I skim through it. 

Numbers are finite, black-and-white entities. They rarely lie.

My heart sinks. The numbers aren’t painting a good picture. Amma’s body is fighting a fierce battle. For how long her lungs can sustain the battering I do not know. Masking our fears, and ignoring the obvious, we do what we always do, which is count our silver linings. Accessible medical care, insurance, and experienced doctors. When we exhaust the positives, we call it a night. Even this simple conversation tires out Amma. 

Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow is when we will decide the next course of action.

Sleep evades me, and melancholic gloom shrouds me. I think of the cards that life has dealt us. If my hand was bad, Amma’s was worse. She was diagnosed with lung disease at the age of eighteen and condemned to lifelong suffering. Years later, Amma met Papa. Much to her relief, he married her without fussing about her condition which had been detrimental to her value in the marriage market. This was supposed to be her happily ever after. Shortly afterwards, she had me and rejoiced that her blessings were overflowing. How was she to know then that her life’s equation only apportioned limited years of happiness? 

Why does the light seduce us into believing that joy is everlasting?

Papa’s diagnosis and untimely demise left her shattered. She didn’t have the time or space to grieve, for she had a young child to raise. Her illness and indomitable spirit were her constant companions, always at odds with one another. 

Over my childhood years, I learnt specific medical details and jargon. Which cough was ill-bearing, what each intake of breath sounded like, what needed to be done during haemorrhaging, and when to rush to the hospital. Relatives offered explanations galore.

Destiny. Karma. Luck. Genetics.

There are enough faulty genes in the family, with Papa’s cancer, and Amma’s lungs. I wonder if any of that DNA material resides in me, like a ticking time bomb. Perhaps not every trait is transmitted. Take the dormant mathematical gene in my child for instance.

***

The next morning, the fever persists, and I decide to take Amma to the hospital. In my prior visits in recent years, I’ve only been the quintessential tourist to my hometown, celebrating its nostalgic charm. This time I do not have that privilege and I ditch the accent and the airs.

Our auto-driver is racing too fast for his good, swerving, and swearing at a car that gets too close. He doesn’t flinch when I tell him a patient is seated in his auto. It’s part and parcel of his livelihood. A virus doesn’t scare him the way hunger does.

We reach the sombre gates of the hospital. A sense of déjà vu, a strange desolation engulfs me. Amma sneaks furtive glances at me, and I know that I need to wear yet another mask over my masked-up face.

It’s the same mask I slip on when my little one demands to know bitter truths. Also, the one I wear while staring at my reflection and asking if the pain associated with loss ever goes away. 

After running tests, and waiting for a few hours, the pulmonologist, a busy-looking man in his forties, makes an appearance. He places his stethoscope on Amma’s chest. Does he hear my thundering heartbeat too?

He tells me that the bloodwork indicates inflammation. Amma’s parameters are all over the place, and the need to admit is immediate. I glance at my mother for direction, but she is looking at me. The role reversal is complete; I’m the one who has to decide. Amma has always been my rock, and today my rock is crumbling. There is nothing I can do, except wait and watch and not drown in the maelstrom of emotions. The nurses wheel her away, while I occupy myself with the admission procedure. 

As I fill out the forms, my daughter’s face comes to my mind. 

There is no way I am returning soon. 

The news of Amma’s hospitalization spreads like wildfire. Relatives message and call with a vengeance. They demand to know if the best treatment is being administered. They wonder if I should have opted for the superspecialist hospital across town. One of them callously points out that since I’m rolling in Singapore dollars, I shouldn’t scrimp on medical treatment. 

Some relatives are like weeds. You eliminate them, but they spring up again, determined to suffocate you.

There is simply no dearth of advice- medical, spiritual, astrological, and logistical. Financial advice is more relevant, yet no one asks. Prayers are free, or else they too would be distributed only sparingly. Additionally, no one volunteers to help. We are with you in spirit, they say. What am I to do with spirits, I wonder. I block a relative that sends me an article about brain drain, and how NRI children struggle to take care of their ageing parents. 

Have I been selfish in choosing a life, an ocean apart? When I moved, why didn’t I think of all this?

That evening we shift into a tiny hospital room, which I expect to be immaculately clean, but leaves me disappointed. The nurse is busy administering antibiotics to Amma through a drip line. I watch the colourless liquid traipse through the tube and into her veins. The sunlight through the grilled window creates ethereal shadow lattices on the ground, an interplay of light and dark. 

My phone rings. It is my child. She wants to know how her grandmother is doing. After I apprise her of the situation, I question her gently about her state of exam preparedness. She requests me for help; a sum is bothering her. She texts it to me.

Marge baked brownies. She gives half of what she has to Peter. Of the remaining left, she gives twenty to Paul. How many brownies did she bake in total if she had ten in the end? Draw a model to solve this. 

To divert Amma’s attention, I show her the problem. Marge isn’t distributing brownies; she is disseminating diabetes. This poor attempt at a joke brings a smile to my mother’s pensive face. The lattice networks flicker, till they merge with the darkness. 

***

The next morning, the pulmonologist examines Amma again. His expression tells me that he is concerned. Is she going to be OK? I ask. Let us hope so, he says non-committedly. Only time will tell, he adds. I don’t want to hear this. I want him to tell me that it’s nothing. Instead, he chooses to say nothing. 

Nothing or zero is a powerful concept in mathematics. In a negative world, it’s the most positive you can be. But in a positive world, it is the bare minimum. I don’t know which side of zero I’m on. 

I call my husband to update him on the developments. He tells me to be strong. Strength scares me. It exhausts me. I don’t want to be strong. I just want to curl myself into a ball, exposing as little of my vulnerabilities as possible. But I have to pretend for my mother’s sake, so that she recovers, and I can get back to my humdrum existence. Humdrum is good. Humdrum does not involve heartbreak.

While staring at my mother, my daughter’s face comes to my mind. A woman devotes herself in entirety to the places she calls home, yet she herself lives in halves. 

Division is a mathematical operation that involves splitting a number into smaller numbers.  When a woman divides her heart? She is whole yet divided. Divided yet whole.

***

The next day, I head home to pick up a few things. I jam the keys into the keyhole and the door opens with a creak. While I am here, I plan to cook a few dishes too. Hospital food is bland and palate-gutting. Recovery will be faster with good nourishment.

After chopping the vegetables, I try to light the gas stove. It hisses and splutters, as though it is angry that I’m here, and not the true mistress of the house. Why is the stove so belligerent today? Ah! The gas cylinders are empty, just like me.

Amma is waiting for me at the hospital, and here I am with raw ingredients and a stove that won’t light. I break down. The tears fall fast and furious. Why have Murphy and the universe ganged up? I have a gold medal in calculus but am challenged when it comes to changing a cylinder. Back in Singapore, we have gas pipelines.

The doorbell rings. Amma’s eighty-year-old neighbour has spotted me from her window. Seeing my tear-soaked face, she asks if I need help. I sheepishly admit to her that I’m struggling. She changes the cylinder in less than a minute and tells me that some things may seem hard at first, but they sort themselves out in the end. Just like how the most complex-looking equations have the simplest of roots, I think. 

Is the universe sending me some kind of message? 

As I leave for the hospital, my eyes fall on a wooden Krishna figure in the prayer room. A poignant memory flashes. 

A little girl clutching the figure and asking for divine intervention. Today she is back, pleading, yet again. The idol doesn’t reply. 

Was I expecting anything different?

***

It’s been a week now, and we have fallen into a routine, cognizant of which nurse comes when, and what drugs will be administered when. I talk to my family in Singapore every day. It is the best part of my day, any day. My husband assures me that he is holding the fort. When-will-you-come-back, when-will-you-come-back, my daughter demands. Soon, I say. Daddy is trying to teach me Math, but he isn’t as good as you, she complains.

The couch I sleep on is making loud noises, and the springs protest against my weight. I have disturbing dreams that haunt me. My demons of the past are resurfacing with a vengeance. Some nights, I’m a child again, praying for a miraculous cure for cancer. On other nights, I’m with my mother in hospital. When I wake up, I do find myself in the hospital, with my mother. 

The fever continues to be stubborn, edging towards realms of uncertainty. The pulmonologist breaks the news to me. Your mother ought to have recovered by now, he says. Maybe it’s not just bronchiectasis. Let’s do more tests, he continues. I listen with a sinking heart, an ominous fear gripping my soul. Let’s run scans to rule out the Big C, he states nonchalantly, unaware of the dagger he has thrust into my heart. Just a precaution, he adds. 

I’ve heard this before, these very words. Twenty-five years ago. What are the odds that cancer snatches away both your parents? Why is my equation for happiness so anti-climactic?

I tell Amma I need to step out to catch some air. She nods, understanding how cornered and suffocated I feel. I walk through the labyrinthine corridors, through the different departments and wards. The most ardent worshippers are found not in the houses of God, but in these temples of medicine. Deals with the divine are struck here, within these four walls which reek of disinfectant and desperate pleas. 

I catch snippets of conversation in the hallways. Up ahead is the paediatrics department. A woman is bouncing a crying toddler on her knee and anxiously asking the nurse when the doctor will be in. Seeing the child creates a pang. I climb the stairs to the administrative affairs office. An elderly woman is sitting at the insurance desk trying to tally figures that won’t add up. Outside the building, I bump into a man, accidentally getting a glance at his reports, and realizing there are too many outliers. They are all fighting their battles, just like me.

I head to the nearby temple; there is one right next to the hospital. I prostrate in front of the deity, and the priest offers me some flowers. I twirl a flower, marvelling at its beauty. The petals are arranged perfectly in a sequence decided by nature and named by Mathematics. Every petal has a place in this sequence, in this natural order, and can be modelled.

Why is it that only life is so haphazard, so unpredictable, so unstructured?

New message alert. Must be a friend or a well-wisher, sending light and hugs. It isn’t. It’s from the offspring. She demands to know who I love more: Granny or her. Children are experts at emotional blackmail. I’m reminded of a tale from Indian mythology. Trishanku, a king, aspired to do what no mortal could; enter Heaven as a living being. The sages of his court performed prayers and holy chants to fulfil his wish, and he began his ascent skywards. The Gods in Heaven fumed. A mortal in the celestial realms was against the natural order of things. They barred him from entry. He was stuck in the sky, hanging between Heaven and Earth.

I am the sandwich generation, torn between two countries and two people, both of whom I love, and both of whom need me. My Heaven and Earth. I am Trishanku.

As I head back, I notice a woman outside the emergency department, sobbing. Her grief resonates with mine, and I can’t move away. When she notices my presence, I assure her that whatever it is, it will be alright. She blinks her teary eyes and in them, I recognize an emotion. 

Gratitude. 

When I’m back in the room, Amma suggests that I read a newspaper, instead of combing through online medical journals. I stare at the print, unable to grasp a single word. How does one focus in a hospital, surrounded by devices that scream at the top of their metallic lungs at the slightest aberration? Even they have fully functioning lungs, unlike Amma. 

I worry about what the future looks like. How am I going to take care of my mother? This equation has many variables. 

Cost of care. Bills. Airfare. Insurance. Angst. Guilt. Societal perceptions. Self-respect.

Too complex for me to solve. I shoot a text to my daughter, asking her to recheck her calculations, to show clear working steps, in her exams. That’s the only support I can lend her. There are bigger exams I’m taking, currently.

I shed tears. For having to make choices. For having to be in the state of the in-between, and a wistful longing for the childhood I never had. 

***

It’s the tenth day. The fever is getting worse. I’m at my wit’s end now. The doctor has upped the doses of the medicines and hooked Amma to devices to ensure she breathes, unimpeded. The cultures and the scan results will be out tomorrow, and I have a feeling of foreboding that refuses to go away. I can’t even bring myself to pray. 

It is difficult to sleep in a hospital room because nurses come in and out all the time, filling charts and checking on patients. Tonight is worse because I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. 

Yet I dream, hazy dreams, that take me back to when Papa was alive. I’m trying to crack a math problem, but the equation isn’t balancing. I keep scratching out my calculations on the paper, till I burst into tears. Papa holds my hands. He reads the sum and tells me the question itself is wrong. Papa, but how can it be? It’s a textbook, I protest. Sometimes, things don’t go as per plan for no fault of yours, he says. Don’t be too hard on yourself he adds, squeezing my hand. I beam at him.

My Amma calls my name. I wake up with a start, realizing that she is calling out to me for real. She is soaked in rivulets of perspiration. I panic for a second, then I remember that sick people sweat when a fever breaks. When I summon the nurse, she tells me the readings are showing an improvement for the first time in many days. I feel an inexplicable warmth in my heart, akin to a cocktail of happiness and comfort washing over me. The doctor confirms that recovery is on the horizon, much to our palpable relief.

There are phases when everything goes wrong. When there seems to be no way out of the dark abyss. Then they are pulses of positivity, ephemeral bursts you want to hold onto forever. This is the beginning of such a burst, and I want to freeze this moment forever.

The next day, the pulmonologist utters the words we have been craving for. We are out of the woods; the scans are clean. This isn’t a malignancy, and whatever virus was causing the lungs to collapse is now retreating, a miracle of all sorts given Amma’s age and her general condition. 

I beam at my mother with pride. Amma’s been a champion through and through. Ever since she’s been admitted, she has not complained. Not even once. When I ask her how she is feeling, she always replies that she is fine, even when she isn’t. She even cracks jokes, and chats with the nurses. I’ve been the one wallowing in self-pity. 

Amma, how do you do it, I ask? I am this close to shattering, I confess.

She tells me that the joy lies in toppling the odds. Doing what they think you can’t do. Not grieving the moments that could have been, should have been, and would have been, but are simply not. 

She beat her bronchiectasis diagnosis with her head held high, treating it as a minor nuisance and not a major part of her identity. The world mocked her and said she wouldn’t find a husband. When she did, they said she wouldn’t bear a child. When her husband died, they said she couldn’t raise her child by herself. She proved them wrong, every single time.

Her words stir deep emotions in me. There are times when I wish I were someone else, somewhere else. That my story had been something else. But these are the odds I have been assigned, and I will beat them, like a true champion. 

I am my Amma’s daughter, am I not?

The hospital is a place where one hears many devastating words. Death, disease, disillusionment. But there is one that is the sweetest of them all.

Discharge.

The pulmonologist gives us the green signal. We vacate the hospital room, our home for the past several days, bidding adieu to the gossamer lattices. We are free to go, free from the antiseptic smell, drips, and beeping apparatuses. 

We are back home after our ordeal, and Amma is resting. I light a lamp in the prayer room, in front of the wooden Krishna and offer my gratitude. 

Amidst this chaos, I’ve forgotten my child’s Math paper. I hope she has done well. 

Am I a bad mother? The guilt hits me hard.

***

I’ve been in India for over a month now, determined to leave only after Amma is fully up and about. Surprisingly, I’ve not been the only one counting the days. The neighbours, the friends, and the relatives make it their life’s mission to remind me that I’ve been away from my child and my husband, some naysayers even speculating that either I’ve left them, or they’ve left me.  My existence seems to be defined by one of two identities.

An irresponsible mother who leaves her young daughter behind, or a bad daughter who abandons her ailing mother.  

Some wonder why I can’t take Amma to Singapore along with me. How can I explain to them the exchange rate-adjusted cost of medical care, the hassles, and the pride of a woman fiercely independent even if she has only half a functioning lung?

My daughter’s school holidays have begun, and I’m tempted to call her over here. But I have my reasons not to do so. She doesn’t need to see any of this. I want her to stay a child for as long as she can. Let her enjoy her childhood the way she should, the way I couldn’t. My burden is not hers to share. This triggers another train of thought. She is an only child, just like me. Will she have to face the same fate if my husband or I were to fall sick? 

Take one day at a time. Don’t be too hard on yourself, I sigh.

Amma is better, and now it is time for bittersweet goodbyes. I witness her quiet sorrow upon informing her of my return. But in that sorrow, I see acceptance and relief too. She tells me not to worry about being a bad daughter, or an absent mother. You are neither, she confirms. What am I, I ask hesitantly. You are my pride, she says quietly.

This trip has been eye-opening for me in many ways. I think of the lattices, the interweaving of the light and the dark. Being alive is not just about breathing.  It is about celebrating each breath, and loving life and its whimsical ways, even if there are not many reasons to rejoice. It’s about clinging onto hope tightly with both hands and refusing to let go. It’s about bouncing back after defying the odds. It’s about promising yourself that life’s adversities won’t break you; not now, not ever.

You can’t influence every variable; the equation is bound to go out of control. But what you can do, is enjoy each moment, and hope for strength to withstand the outcome, no matter how favourable or unfavourable it is.

***

I’m back at the Airport, ready to return to Singapore, heading from one home to another. It’s been a month and four days since I’ve been away. It is the longest I’ve spent with Amma, after my marriage, even if it was in and out of a hospital. But she is on the mend now. That’s what matters. It’s hard to express what I feel.

Ambivalence? Catharsis? Resolution?

Has any mathematical model been invented to decipher the parenting paradox? 

Childhood is that magical phase where our parents are the centre of our Universe. The desire to flee the nest becomes stronger over the years. At first, the freedom is relished, but we miss the warmth of the hearth when the cold winds of adversity blow. Gradually, we crawl back, craving for comfort. One day, we have children of our own, only for this cycle to repeat. Then, our parents become our children, and we are parents once again, in the most irrational and cyclical of ways. 

A quote at the airport bookshop catches my eye. It’s by Bart Millard.

‘As long as there is breath in our lungs, our story is still being written.’

Suddenly, it comes to me; how Trishanku’s story ends. 

Trishanku was caught between the two realms, belonging to the Earth, yearning for Heaven, but stateless in the great in-between. The sages didn’t give up, ready to brave the challenge from the Gods. If their king couldn’t enter Heaven, they’d create their version of Heaven for him, above Earth and below the Heavens. It is believed that Trishanku still resides there in this Heaven.

I’m caught between two responsibilities, one towards the giver of my life, the other to the life I brought forth. I may be the sandwich generation, but the best part of the sandwich is what lies in the middle. We are not the sum total of our tragedies. We are not our diseases, the naysayers, the trauma, or the demons in our head. The solution to the equation of life is the additive effect of our conviction and courage to topple unfair odds. This, right here, is the Mathematics of happiness.

I walk towards the gate as my flight is announced.

***

My daughter hands over her test sheets to me. Her body language tells me that she is agitated or excited, which means the result must be dramatic. I do something that surprises her, and me. I return her marked sheets, without even glancing at them.

Don’t you want to know how much I scored? she demands. You grill me for the stats every time, she continues. Who got the highest, what was the class average, what was the lowest, aren’t you going to ask me all this? 

No, I won’t, I confirm. She is dumbstruck by my transformation. 

I tell her that in life the most important exams are the ones for which you show up. The ones you give your everything to. The ones where the solutions are undefined, but you strive on, hoping for the best outcome. 

What about my result? She asks, nervously. It doesn’t matter, I tell her. 

We can always rewrite our story, as long as there is breath in our lungs, and the will to live. 

By Lalitha Ramanathan